Try Not to Breathe
by pepperlandgirl
Summary: Set Post Grave: Spike is kidnapped by The Counsel of Watchers--will Buffy find out? Will She Care? (S/B)
1. Default Chapter

Title: Try Not to Breathe  
  
Summary: Set after Grave, Spike is captured by the Counsel of Watchers. Will Buffy find out? Will she care?  
  
Rating: Right this second, PG-13. I expect the rating to go up as the work progresses.  
  
Warning: I'm very busy with school and I am working on two other stories....so this may not be updated on a very regular basis.  
  
Spike lost all sense of time and place as he stumbled through the cave. It seemed as though he would never reach the outside world, as the tunnel continued to twist and turn, sometime branching into two choices. At these forks, Spike would pause, scared and uncertain. What if he picked the wrong tunnel and was stuck wondering through the bowels of this cave forever? At this point, the prospect didn't seem entirely unlikely.  
  
He rested occasionally, leaning up against the cold, wet wall and gasping for unneeded breath. He would fall asleep on his feet; too exhausted to keep his eyes open for another minute. Sleep also brought the blessed escape from the pain and hunger ripping through his body. But he could only rest for five or ten minutes at a time before he would jerk awake and continue to search for the way out.  
  
Spike wasn't entirely alone in his quest for the moonlight. Somebody, or something, was following him, just on the outside of his senses. The presence was more of a tingle on the back of his neck than anything else, so he did his best to push it out of his head. If it were something hostile, it would have attacked him by now.  
  
He was half walking, half limping and the sound of his bare feet scraping the dirt and the hard earthen floor echoed loudly off of the walls and the low ceiling that forced Spike to hunch over, nearly bending completely at the waist. Occasionally the sound of Spike's labored progress down the tunnel would be interrupted by a long, loud screech that pierced Spike's skull with intense pain. He was too tired to realize this tormented and tortured sound came from him.  
  
Blood was still dripping from his ears, nose, and mouth and he absently brushed it away. He could feel it in him, moving around, settling in, and twisting his insides until the pain was too much to bear. Who knew that the sound the soul made was that of a little girl, crying pitifully for her life to be spared? Spike certainly didn't before, but he knew all too well now.  
  
Each second stretched to a minute, and each minute an eternity. Why couldn't he find a way out? Was he just moving deeper into the cave? Did he somehow get turned around so completely that he would never find his way out again? And did it even matter anyway? Where was he going? He might as well just make himself comfortable in the endless tunnels, because once he returned to the world, there was nowhere for him to go. He was venturing out into the world that didn't need him and didn't want him, a world where he would be an abomination.  
  
But he couldn't worry about that yet. His survival instinct had kicked in, and it pushed him to continue, even if he didn't have anything to continue for. Finally, he was forced to crawl, to weak to continue on his sore, bloody feet. He pulled himself a long by his hands, inch by painful inch. It occurred to him that he could be moving in circles, but there was no way to tell because everything looked the same-dirt floor, stone walls and darkness.  
  
Spike only hoped that once he actually reached the opening of the cave, it would be dark and he wouldn't burst into flames. He needn't have worried. When he finally reached the mouth of the cave, a deep African night stretched before him. He felt that he could almost touch the inky blackness.  
  
He was so relieved to reach the clean, fresh air and escape the stale darkness behind him that he didn't notice the small group of people waiting for him, just off the side. He collapsed onto the harsh sand, still warm from the sun that set just hours before, and shut his eyes. He just needed to rest-just for a moment. He would just close his eyes and..  
  
Spike never saw the man who knocked him unconscious with the heavy, lead pipe.  
  
~*~  
  
The two men drove to the airport in silence. In their backseat, a very dangerous vampire lay sleeping. Only, he didn't look so dangerous anymore. He looked like shit. His skin was too pale and stretched across his bones tautly. He looked almost blue in the moonlight.  
  
He was filthy, caked with mud made of dirt and blood. His body was covered in gashes and burns, and he looked like he couldn't hurt a fly. But the two men in the front seat were armed into the teeth and prepared to stake the wounded vampire if he attacked.  
  
When they reached the airport, they moved quickly, doing their best to get the vampire into the plane before it stirred. They cuffed his hands behind him and chained him securely to the chair. Two large men sat across from him, armed with stakes, crosses, holy water, and tasers. They were both ready to kill if they had to, they knew their job.  
  
They didn't know the particulars of the mission though. Both men were briefed on Spike, who he is, and his history, but they weren't told why it was important to keep the monster alive. Travers made it very clear that if they returned without the vampire, there would be dear consequences to pay.  
  
"Do you have more chains?" The larger of the two asked.  
  
"One more, Bob. Why? You don't think he's secure?"  
  
"Just want to make sure we don't have to kill him. You know what Travers said."  
  
"I know what he said, but I don't know why. Do you have any fucking clue why we're dragging this.animal.all they way to England from Africa?"  
  
Bob shook his head, "I don't know why, and it's not my job to know why. My job is to make sure it reaches the Counsel in one piece."  
  
"Right." They lapsed into silence as the airplane sputtered into life.  
  
"We'll just hit him with a few volts if he acts up," Bob muttered.  
  
"Right."  
  
"Won't be a problem at all."  
  
"Never is."  
  
They both gripped their stakes tighter, as the plane took off and they realized they were stuck in a small, confined space with a known killer. Neither believed that chains could really hold the vampire if he wanted to be free. If he was hungry enough, nothing would hold him back.  
  
When Spike opened his dull blue eyes, he didn't even react. They flickered over the two tense man, took in his surroundings, and then closed again. None of them spoke. The miles fell behind them as they rushed through the atmosphere towards the sun. It registered in Spike's tired brain that the sunrise was approaching, but he didn't really care. He'd rather the sun take him than one of the big goons staring back at him as though he was a bug caught under a piece of glass.  
  
Despite his exhaustion, his interest was piqued. Why were they keeping him alive at all? Much less going to the trouble of keeping him chained and guarded? He sighed, probably just some blokes who wanted a spot of torture and decided he looked like a good candidate. That was the way his luck was going lately. But if he were being tortured, he wouldn't be able to think about Buffy, or the soul, or.anything else. That was something.  
  
In the meantime, he hoped that they would knock him out again. It would be much easier to pass the flight in the blessed relief of sleep, but he didn't think that was likely. Spike didn't think any sort of relief would be coming his way any time soon. 


	2. Part 2

Part 2

"The vampire's here sir."   
  


"Excellent work. I trust he's in the ah…room… we prepared for him?" Travers asked. The room was an 8 by 10 cell, furnished with a bed and a sink. Bars with a high voltage kept the dangerous demon safely in place.

"Yes sir, and we gave him blood, but he refused to drink it."

"Is it drugged?"

"No, it's not, sir. We decided to make sure he got better before we drugged him."

"Better, Donald?"

Donald grimaced. "The creature looks really bad, sir. Worse than we expected, and the plane ride didn't help. He won't be any good to us if he can't even speak."  
  
Travers nodded. "Right. But is everything else ready?"

"It's been ready for weeks, sir." 

"We can't afford to wait much longer. I don't care what you have to do, just get that vampire to eat!" 

That was Donald's cue to leave, and so he ducked out of the room quietly, leaving Travers alone with his books and musty scrolls of prophecies. Travers' office was large, and books lined the wall. But even with all the knowledge at his finger tips in his personal library and the Watchers' database, he was still missing the fundamental information he so desperately needed. 

It caused him physical pain to have to go to a vampire for help of any kind. But according to the Council seers, this William the Bloody was their best chance at solving the riddle that has confounded and tormented the Council for the past 150 years. If he would cooperate that is, and Quentin was quite sure the vampire would, in fact, cooperate.

"Sir?" 

Quentin jumped slightly, surprised by the intrusion. "What is it, Donald?"

"Sir, Martha just contacted me. She said that you need to get down to the pens immediately."

"Why?"

"It's the vampire. She said something is…wrong with him."

"Wrong?"  
  
Donald shrugged, "She didn't give me the details. Just told me to get you as quickly as possible."

Travers sighed. "I'll be right down." It concerned him that Martha was requesting his presence. The witch was quite capable of handling problems on her own, and very little surprised her. If something had startled her or worried her, then it very likely was something that would hinder their plans. 

Donald followed him silently as they made their way from the office to lowest level of the Council's headquarters. It used to be a dungeon, and was used as torture chambers to elicit confessions from wishes clear up until the 1800s. It was still used, on occasion, as a confessional, but now it was mainly used as storage space. In the very back of the old dungeon was the cell they used to keep the vampire. There he was protected from sunlight and curious eyes, and far enough away that his screams wouldn't disturb everybody's work. 

"Mr. Travers," Martha greeted as soon as he stepped out of the elevator. "I'm so happy you could come so quickly. I couldn't wait to tell you, it's very important."

"Yes, yes," Travers prompted, "What is it?" 

"I ran some standard tests on him while he was asleep, including monitoring his aura. Sir, I've discovered something quite extraordinary." She paused for effect and then blurted, "Sir, the vampire has a soul." 

"Excuse me?" Of all the things she could have said, he was not expecting that. "Are you sure? Angelus is the one with the soul." 

"Mr. Travers, I am _quite_ certain. I'll show you." 

She bustled down the hallway, hardly able to contain her excitement. Quentin followed the young woman, so surprised by her revelation that he didn't even bother to take a few seconds to enjoy the view of her ass wiggling in front of him. A soul? How the bloody fuck did the vampire get a _soul_? 

They reached the cage, and Quentin was shocked to see how bad William the Bloody looked. The bruises, burns, and cuts were beginning to heal and the blood had been cleaned from his ivory skin, but those were small improvements. He still looked like had had gone 10 rounds with a very angry Feyaral demon. 

"Where did you find him?" Quentin murmured.

"Outside of a cave. In Africa. He had been there for quite some time."

"_Africa_? What was he doing in Africa of all places? I thought he made his home in Sunnydale, with the Slayer." 

"We think the trip to Africa had something to do with the soul," Martha explained. "Maybe he got it there." 

"Let me see it." 

Martha uttered a few incantations under her breath, and suddenly the area around the unconscious vampire was glowing. 

"What is that?" Quentin breathed. 

"His aura. Typically vampires have pure black auras, with a bit of red to signify…desire, for blood, carnage, sex. But as you can see, his is nothing like that." 

"And you are quite certain that means he has a soul."

Martha nodded, "There's no other reasonable explanation." 

"You think a soul is reasonable explanation?" Quentin exploded. 

"It's the only one we have," she explained. "What are we going to do now?" 

"Do? Why of course, we'll continue with the original plan." 

"But sir, we can't. He has a soul," Martha protested.

He shook his head, "That doesn't make a difference. He's still a vampire. Now if we're through her…"

"Yes, quite through," she said softly. 

"Ms. Parker, I suggest that you do not let misguided notions of sympathy get in the way of our mission." Travers' voice was clipped and cold. 

"No, no sir."   
  
Quentin turned on his heel and marched to the elevator, Donald following him obediently, leaving Martha alone with the sleeping, soulled vampire. She turned to look at him, and watched silently as he remained motionless. She didn't see a vampire, a monster. She saw a broken and beaten man, kidnapped and held ransom, vulnerable, and alone. Despite her boss's warning, her heart went out to this creature. She was powerless to stop the Council's plans, but she could do something to make them the next days and weeks a bit more bearable. 

~*~ 

Buffy didn't get the dishes finished until long after Dawn went to bed. She had been getting more and more slack with the chores during the summer. It was too hot to work and they couldn't afford to run the air conditioner, so they just lay around the house like garden slugs. Hot, sweaty, garden slugs. 

They had long since stopped cooking, both girls deciding that the added heat of the stove just was not worth it. Buffy was tempted to give up on dishes too, and just start buying plastic plates. It would be much easier than going through this every single night, at any rate. 

At least the Double Meat Palace was air conditioned, so that was something. A very small something. She needed to find a new job, but nobody hired in the middle of summer when their ranks were swelled with high school kids looking to make a quick buck. Buffy felt a bit of resentment towards them. It's not like they _needed _the money. She sighed, but they were probably more qualified than her anyway. 

Buffy collapsed on the couch and turned the TV on. She _should_ go make a sweep through the cemeteries, but she really didn't feel like it. As a matter of fact, since that fateful weekend in May, she hadn't felt like much of anything. Everything she did and everywhere she went reminded her of Willow and Spike. Especially Spike. 

Every day that passed without his return caused her alarm. It felt unnatural, wrong somehow, that Spike was missing and Buffy had no clue where he was. Not a single fucking clue. If Willow was here, she'd ask her to do a locator spell. Shoot, if Anya or Giles were there, she'd ask _them_ to do a spell. She wasn't picky about who did the magic. All she knew was that she had no idea how to do a spell, and neither did Xander or Dawn. Not that they would anyway. 

Not that she could explain to them why it was so important that she find Spike. She didn't even know why she cared. The only explanation she could offer was simple curiosity. And the Slayer dreams. 

The dreams were clear in detail, but not in meaning. The only thing she could glean from them was that Spike was still alive, and that something really big and scary was coming. For all of them. And somehow, Spike was involved with whatever big thing was heading their way. 

Only she didn't know how, exactly, he was involved. The slayer part of her was concerned that he _was_ the thing coming for them, or at least, was working with it. She always had to be prepared for the eventuality that the vampire would get the chip out and turn evil. 

But the part of her that wasn't the Slayer doubted that greatly. She didn't get the sense from her dreams that he was causing the danger, rather that he was in danger. And that somehow they would need him. Which means they would need to find him. 

Annoyed, she flipped through the channels. They couldn't afford cable anymore, so all they had was some bunny-ears. Which meant they only got five channels. There just wasn't much on. There wasn't anything on except infomercials. Buffy knew she should just go to bed, but she wasn't tired. She was bored. 

There was a stack of books left there by Giles and forgotten about next to the couch, and Buffy idly picked one up. She didn't really intend to read it, but these demon books usually had interesting pictures. 

Buffy was almost at the end of the book when she saw it. Page 722. She shut and reopened the book several times, not fully convinced of what she was seeing. 

"Oh fuck," she muttered, "oh fuck." She grabbed the phone and blindly dialed Giles' number by memory. 

"Giles? We need to talk." 

~*~

Spike kept his eyes closed long after he actually woke up. He could sense her outside his cell, hovering, watching him. She seemed relatively harmless, but he knew that she had been using some heavy magic on him. Too bad she couldn't use some of that magic to heal him up. 

He ached all over. It wasn't as bad as on the plane, but it was bad enough. His instincts were begging him to drink the blood they had left him, but memories of the Initiative held him back. He didn't need to be drugged right now, and if that meant going hungry even though he wouldn't heal without the blood, than so be it. 

It was cold where he was at, and Spike vaguely recalled the long elevator ride down when they finally reached their destination. He knew he was trapped, unable to escape. He was so deep underground that he couldn't even sense what time it was. All of his senses were fucked up. 

"You should eat," the woman said gently.

Spike opened his eyes and tried to smirk. "I'm not hungry." 

"Mr…"

He rolled his eyes, "Just call me Spike." 

"Spike, the blood isn't drugged. We need you to be well." 

"Need me to be well for what?" 

"I…I can't say. But you should eat." 

"Why am I here?" 

She sighed. "You'll find out soon enough." 

"I don't like being jerked around. You know what I think? I think I'm going to go on a hunger strike." 

"No!" Spike raised an eyebrow at her vehement protest. "I mean," she continued, "that won't hurt anybody but yourself."

Spike shrugged, "I'm in more pain than you can possibly imagine. An empty stomach won't really be a problem."  
  
She nodded understandingly, "Because of the soul." 

He sat up quickly. "How did you know about that?"

"I can see it. You're aura is…glowing." 

"Well, that's bloody fantastic. Is that why I'm here?"

"Spike, I really can't talk about it. I'm just here to make sure you eat." 

Spike eyed the blood on his ground, and his stomach growled loudly. If the blood wasn't drugged, he was torturing himself needlessly. If the blood was drugged, they'd probably torture him anyway. Either way he was going to be tortured. 

With a growl he picked up the packet and tore into it, his yellow eyes flashing at his startled companion. She smiled as he gulped it down, appreciating the fact that with each swallow of blood his wounds were beginning to heal.

"My name is Martha, by the way, in case you were wondering." 

Spike threw the empty package on the ground. "I wasn't. Why don't you answer the questions I asked?" 

"Because, I can't."  
  


"What, you don't know, ducks? I find that hard to believe." 

"Are you still hungry?" 

In response, Spike flashed his fangs at her. "I can get you more blood," she promised. 

"Whatever." 

Spike stood up and, without thinking, grabbed one of the bars. The bolt sent him flying across his small room, and he hit the stone wall with a thud. "What the bloody fuck is that?" Spike howled. 

Martha smiled apologetically. "It's electrified. The Council is taking no chances…"

"The Council? The bloody Watcher's Council?" 

Martha swore under her breath. 

"I take it you weren't supposed to divulge that piece of information," Spike said. 

"You would have found out any way, I suppose." 

"What else can you tell me?" 

"Nothing," she claimed. "I'll be right back." 

When she was out of sight, Spike collapsed on the bed. The conversation took a lot out of him, and the effort of speaking on top of the unexpected electrical shock made him feel like sleeping for the next hundred years. But he couldn't afford to go to sleep, not if he could help it. 

Spike wondered if Buffy knew that the bloody Watchers had him. Not likely, but possible. If she knew, would she try to get him out? That was even less likely. The most likely scenario as that the Watchers would run a bunch of tests on him, slap him around a bit, and stake his sorry ass. He could make things as difficult as possible for them, but they definitely had the upper hand in the situation. 

And Spike _hated_ that. 

Martha returned, armed with two packages of blood. She tossed them both between the bars, but Spike ignored them. 

"That's all I can get you for now," she said.

"S'ok." He didn't move to pick them up. 

"You might want them before they get cold." 

Spike silently picked them up and drank them quickly. He lay down and turned his back to Martha and her friendly smile. He was done talking for the day.  


End file.
